


Geocentric

by TheMadKatter13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom John, Confessions, Crime Scenes, Earth Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Mars Greg, Mercury John, Moon John, New Au, Planetlock, Space Terms, Space-Illiterate Author, Top Sherlock, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMadKatter13/pseuds/TheMadKatter13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was a Mercury. But even if he was a Moon, there was no way a Planet like Sherlock Holmes would want to be in Orbit with a washed up army doctor like him anyway. And that was fine. It was all fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geocentric

**Author's Note:**

> I was sitting on the bus, trying to work out a NaNo scene in my head, and I think someone dosed me when I wasn't paying attention and now I'm high as fuck. Otherwise, I have no explanation for this. Or my NaNo hijacked my brain for purposes other than writing my NaNo. But since I'm stuck in a rut with my NaNo anyway, may as well pump this out real quick.
> 
> Planets: [Mercury](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mercury_\(planet\)), [Venus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venus), [Earth](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earth), [Mars](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mars), [Jupiter](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jupiter), [Saturn](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn), [Uranus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uranus), [Neptune](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neptune), and [Pluto](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pluto) (which is not currently classified as a planet); and [their moons](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_natural_satellites).
> 
> ge·o·cen·tric ( **/ˌjēōˈsentrik/** ) _adjective_  
>      1. having or representing the earth as the centre, as in former astronomical systems.  
>         • ASTRONOMY  
>         • measured from or considered in relation to the centre of the earth.

John had known a few Jupiters and Saturns in uni. They were fairly uncommon, as Planets went, but they had always managed to maintain Orbit with no less than a dozen Moons the entire time he'd known them. He had been a little jealous, of how easily they all worked together, but at the same time, he'd found it exhausting. For all that he fancied himself a social person, he had never done well with large groups of people at a time. Which was probably why he was a only Mercury himself.

When he had been a child, and the shadowy grey began to manifest on his skin, no one had been able to determine if he was Mercury or Earth's Moon. Eventually, they let his personality traits lead them to a conclusion. He was strong, a bit solitary, a decent leader when need be. He'd been proud of it, but as time wore on, as he got older and the implications of it sunk in, the realisation that he'd never experience true Orbit drove him to one night stand after one night stand with Moon after Moon. There was even a period where the concept had terrified him so much that he'd experimented with other Planets. Harry, a Planet and unabashedly gay, had been all for it, and was quite vocal in her disappointment when he'd given up them after too many personality clashes.

Joining the army had been more of a relief than he could have ever imagined. So many Planets, all in one place, all trying to one-up each other. There were Moons too, of course there were, but no one was even trying to fall into Orbit with anyone else. And when Planets and Planets or Moons and Moons fell into bed together in the midst of a battlefield, no one batted an eye. It had felt like home. Then a bullet, a tiny bit of metal, hilariously small in comparison, knocked him from his System, and John fell back into the cold, lonely greyness of London.

**.oOo.**

"So, you don't have a Moon then?" John asked conversationally, spearing pasta with his fork as he carefully avoided eye contact with the gorgeous Earth across from him.

"A Moon? No, not really my area," Sherlock replied dismissively, and John's heart had stuttered in his chest. After his bout of experimentation in uni, he'd decided he wasn't gay, but the detective seemed the type to be an automatic exception wherever he went. Apparently, that included the Mercury's interest as well.

"A Planet then?" he ventured. He tried to keep the hope out of his voice, but he'd never met anyone more beautiful more fascinating more- The Earth's eyes snapped to him, a frown furrowing the space between oddly delicate-looking eyebrows. "Which is fine, by the way," he said hurriedly.

"I know it's fine." Sherlock's quick response felt unexpectedly defensive and John couldn't help but wonder why. He'd already confirmed his own sister was a Planet who preferred the company of other Planets, and he was sure the genius would have deduced if he was displeased with that aspect of the woman, but John wasn't, and Sherlock hadn't.

"So you've got a Planet then?" he tried again. The conversation was falling into a black hole of awkwardness, and there seemed to be no way to disrupt the gravitational pull. In the army, everyone was part of the same System and slept in a giant hall full of bunks. He hadn't had to navigate anything like a proper flatshare since his uni days, nearly two decades past, and it was most decidedly _not_ like riding a bike.

"No." There was an odd sensation of relief at the sharp confirmation and he slowly let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"So you're unattached," he murmured, tucking back into his dinner as his heart settled. "Like me. Okay. Fine. Good." Suddenly, John felt the whole weight of Sherlock's attention on him, and something in his chest began to sink.

"John, I think you should know that I consider myself in Orbit with my work, and-"

John's face went up in flames. "No! I'm not- I'm not… gay." And he wasn't, but he knew he would make an exception for this man if he could. "I was just saying, it's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock was eyeing him suspiciously as the Mercury kept his own eyes carefully averted. The initial, comfortable atmosphere was frustratingly absent, and John was more than happy to let the Work sweep him away a few short minutes later. Anything to forget the embarrassment of rejection. But really, what was he expecting? A Mercury didn't have natural satellites. Why should John be so lucky?

**.oOo.**

The skin of Sherlock's neck under John's fingers was mottled with healing contusions, variations of red and purple off-setting the yellow-greens. The jade pin had been recovered, the Black Lotus gang run out of London, the case solved, and John had forced Sherlock into the toilet to determine the damage to his throat. Two attempted strangulations in as many days weren't exactly special, but the sight of bruises smeared across the pale swaths of blue and green-brown of Sherlock's Planetary colourings unnerved John more than he could admit, and he had shamelessly bullied his friend into receiving treatment.

With his flatmate perched on the toilet counter and John between his knees, the doctor peering intently at the long neck elongated by the way Sherlock's head was tilted back, they were closer than they had been in days. At least, not since darkened railway tracks and long finger cupping John's head as he was spun in circles.

As the doctor's capable fingers palpated the soft skin of his friend's neck, suddenly, all he could think about was how close they had been in that moment, how clearly he'd been able to see the green-blue-grey of the Earth's eyes, how he'd been able to feel warm breath wafting over his face, how he would never need another companion in his life. He would follow the man before him until the end of his life; Sherlock would never be his, not really, but he would always be Sherlock's.

 _'I'm in Orbit,'_ he thought suddenly, the realisation making his breath catch on the inhale and his fingers fall still. He had never thought that it could happen, unless it was with a Sun, but it had. Looking back on their friendship, it had been since the beginning, too. That first day in Bart's, with Mike standing of to the side, smiling that secret smile of his. John had fallen into Sherlock's Gravitational Pull so quickly and so smoothly, it had taken him two months to realise it had occurred at all.

"John?" The sound of that deep baritone calling his name made him blink, and the world suddenly came back into focus. He realised that he had been standing there, unmoving, with his fingertips resting gently against dark bruises as his revelation knocked him for six. A long familiar and long suppressed desire rose in him, one that had him aching to wrap around the Earth, luxuriate in the feel of skin against skin within the warm confines of smooth sheets. His breath came out in a shaky exhale, and he pulled his control tight like he was leashing a rambunctious dog before stepping back.

"Sorry, must have fallen asleep on my feet," he forced out, unable to not feel the Gravitational Pull now that he knew it was there. It made him never want to leave Sherlock's side, to make sure he was always within reach, if not touching him, at all times. But not only was that not practical, the detective had no desire for a Planet or a Moon as it was. All John had to do was to not fuck it up. All he had to do was pretend that he'd never realised he was in Orbit in the first place.

"I should head up," he said, taking another step back. It hurt, in an odd, empty sort of way. He forced a grin onto his face, hitching up his chin and his shoulders as he took another step back. "Your throat should be fine, just take some paracetamol soon," he advised, forcing his body to turn and move out of the toilet. "'Night."

As he lay in bed, wide awake and painfully alone, he became aware of a tugging sensation at his centre, trying to pull John closer to Sherlock. He wondered if his parents and his doctor had been wrong all these years. If he really was a Moon, _The_ Moon, rather than a Mercury. It would be the only thing that could explain the apparent strength of the Orbit he had fallen into. But it didn't explain why he had never fallen into Orbit with any of the Earths he had ever met before.

Below him, violin music started to play, long, slow notes seeping up through the floorboards, and John closed his eyes, imaging for just a moment that the song being played was for him. But then he rolled onto his side, back to the door, and attempted to content himself with the fact that, as long as he was allowed to stay in Orbit, he would be fine.

**.oOo.**

John was still attempting to settle into his new outlook when they received a case a week and a half later. A Neptune who had been murdered in her own locked bathroom.

Sherlock moved in ahead of him, sweeping in through the front door and right past the sitting room, the murder scene clearly the first thing he wanted to investigate. John moved to follow at a more subdued pace when he found himself pausing at the sight of the small grouping of men and women curled into each other, each of them blank-faced with tear tracks on their cheeks as Greg and his minions attempted to cajole answers from them. It was the same scene he'd seen countless times, both in Afghanistan and in London, Moons who had lost their Planets, adrift with nothing to attach to, so they clung to each other. These must have been Olivia Flaversham's Moons.

Somehow, now that he was in Orbit, it made sense. He'd never had a Planet or a Moon to be that attached to before, and he hadn't understood the strength of loss those left behind felt. Now that he did have someone, he could only imagine the way Sherlock's loss would fill him with despair, chill him to the bone, put him back to the way he was before a fateful stroll through the park. The thought made him renew his steps, anxious to get his flatmate back into view; any further than an arm away from his protective gaze was much too far.

The detective was already fluttering about the large space, looking at this, touching that, sniffing something here, when John walked into the room. The woman was still in the tub, her mouth frozen open, her fingers curled around the edges, like she was about to stand up any moment. Already familiar with the process, John took some gloves with a tight smile from the NSY worker lingering cautiously in the doorway before moving towards the victim.

His inspection was as perfunctory as he could make it, but it left him more confused than when he started. There were no signs of a struggle, and yet, every indication that the Neptune had simply… stopped breathing. Even more odd, even if she somehow possessed the willpower to stop breathing, the body should still thrash enough to dump water on the floor, but it was bone dry. Miss Flaversham had died, and she hadn't moved when she'd done it.

"How long ago was she reported dead?" he asked, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he swept a hand over the lino, searching for traces damp. There was an unexpected look of approval in Sherlock's eyes, and John almost fell into the tub in a combination of shock, pride, and pleasure. 

"One hundred and sixty-three minutes ago," Sherlock replied, unusually helpful. Just over two and a half hours though. Not enough time for the floor to dry from the amount of water it should have been subjected to, and not enough time for rigor mortis to set in. There was no reason the body should be this stiff. Unless…

"She was subjected to a paralytic?" he asked aloud, turning to look at the detective. Sherlock's eyes were shining brightly in a way that made John's mouth dry. He carefully tore his eyes away to scan the skin he'd just looked over. Depending on the paralytic, it could have immobilized the Neptune so completely that she had just lain there as she suffocated on her own muscles. "But there's no puncture marks…" Sherlock was already shaking his head, moving forward.

"Don't you see?" the Earth exclaimed, gesturing around the spacious toilet. "There didn't have to be. Look!" One long finger was pointed to where clothes and jewellery were already lined up on a bench, the organisation meticulous. "Miss Flaversham works full time and yet her house is spotless. She works excessively to make sure her Moons are taken care of financially, and they provide for her in turn. She doesn't set out her own clothes or jewellery, no one sets out clothes that cleanly before a bath, so one of her Moons did it for her. Guaranteed they drew her bath, as well. Drew it, poisoned it, and let the heat and the water do the rest."

"Fantastic," John felt himself say; even months later, he still couldn't control his own reaction to his flatmate's brilliance. Sherlock spun in place, sending the tail end of his coat flying, his hair in absolute disarray, and his eyes and cheeks bright with the high of the Work.

"I need to see the bedrooms," the detective declared suddenly, striding from the toilet. When the caught up with his friend, the man was in the third bedroom, poking and prodding about the Moons' personal things. John lingered in the doorway, more than happy to just watch the genius work.

"What would be a reason a Moon would not tell a Planet that they had fallen into their Orbit?" Sherlock asked out of nowhere, and John's heart nearly leaped from his chest.

"What?" he sputtered, surprised and a bit frightened. Was this it? Was he found out? About to be evicted? But no, Sherlock wasn't paying him any mind. Instead, his attention was on to picture frames, one in each hand.

"Hurry, John," the Earth called impatiently.

"Um…" He tried to think of the question objectively, but he couldn't keep his own reason from spilling from his mouth first. "Perhaps the Moon had been rejected by the Planet prior. Maybe they were happy with the arrangement they already had with the Planet, or maybe didn't want to ruin the pre-established Orbit of that Planet and the Moons they already had," he suggested, thinking of the large group in the sitting room.

"Hm," was all the detective said as he swept back out into the hallway into the next room. John continued to linger, the light from a fancy chandelier above his head falling on the divots and spikes of the patterns on his skin in such a way that he was caught, entranced. He almost didn't notice when Sherlock breezed past him and strolled into the sitting room.

"Anything, Sherlock?" Greg asked, jumping to his feet. Red played across his skin beneath the rare sunlight coming in from the wide windows, the smooth patterns of a Mars a fascinating compliment to his silver hair.

"Boring," the detective scoffed, already well on his way towards the door. "Not even a five."

"Wait, Sherlock!" the DI sputtered, nearly tripping over the table in his hurry. "What did you find?"

There was a desperate note in Greg's voice that the DI only got when he'd been overloaded with cases or when the case was high-profile. Or both, as John suspected this one was. He hadn't recognised the woman, or her name, but that didn't mean much. He had never paid much attention to the celebrities of the world, much less those who were only famous in the kind of circles that meant old money. Either way, it was clear in the way Sherlock stopped immediately that the consulting detective had heard the same note and had decided to take pity.

"The maid isn't a maid, but a certified anesthesiologist," Sherlock began, waving a dismissive hand at the brunette Moon standing apart from the others, next to the fire place. "The certification is framed and sitting on the bureau in her room, next to a framed photo of Miss Flaversham that has clearly been ripped from a larger photograph containing more people. As an anesthesiologist, she would have the knowledge and ability to obtain the necessary dosage of medication."

The maid's face drained as the room collectively turned to look at her. The Moons looked equal parts impressed, proud, and confused, while the NSY frowned in puzzlement. John was relieved to see, at least on some of them, Greg included, a dawning look of comprehension.

"Okay," the DI said slowly, motioning one of his members over to cuff the woman. "But why would she do that?"

John glanced back at his flatmate and sucked in a quick breath that stuck in his chest. The look on the man's face was the one he always got when he'd been stockpiling deductions and was about to set them free. Every time Sherlock got that look, the ex-soldier felt like he was standing at the open cargo door of a plane again, about to leap into the open air, breath held tight in his chest is giddy, nervous anticipation. Then the genius would take a deep breath, and John would be filled with the sensation of free-falling through space.

"There are ten rings on the toilet sink, less than a week old, each of the stones matching the skin patterning of each of the Neptune's Moons," Sherlock began, the pace of his voice picking up speed as he went. "They are less than a week old, they're shining in a way not possible with cleaning, only new purchase. The rings have been worn everyday, indicated by the marks on each of Miss Flaversham's fingers where her skin is still accustoming itself to the new texture. A very possessive gesture. Yet, Miss Flaversham has never shown such signs in the past. What could have prompted her to begin now? Simple. Someone made an attempt to either join or disband her System. As she feels the need to wear them even at home, that is where the source of the threat is located. We can discard every Moon from the suspect list, as if it were one of them, she would either wear only that one's ring, or wear all the others sans that one. As she wears all ten, we know that the threat is someone outside of her system. The only other person who frequently inhabits the household is the maid. There are letters of recommendation on Miss Flaversham's bureau for the maid, trying to get her employment elsewhere. Why get rid of a maid that has obviously been doing her job properly and has been employed for over a year? The maid confessed she fell into Orbit with the Neptune, and was rejected. Miss Flaversham amicably attempted to provide assistance with another job, she had no desire to make her maid suffer, but either the maid could have her, or no one could. She drew her employer a bath and mixed in drugs she obtained by way of her certification. Miss Flaversham's muscles were paralysed, and she suffocated on her own inability to breath," Sherlock finally concluded, barely winded from his monologue but eyes and cheeks aglow with the triumph of delivering his observations like a bomb that left his audience looking a bit dazed.

"Brilliant," John breathed helplessly, his body feeling weightless in the wake of his awe and pride.

One of the Moons trembled and blinked furiously, turning to face the now ashen-faced maid, already in cuffs.

"Is that true, Helen?" the man asked, chin trembling and eyes bright with unshed tears.

"I thought I could just be in the house," the maid, Helen mumbled, tears streaking down her cheeks. "I thought it would be okay if I could just be around her, and you. But it was more pain than I ever knew, being allowed to watch and not join. That's all I wanted, was to join, and she told me there _wasn't room?_ I already live here! I was already one of her Moons in everything except name and affection!" She was shouting now, struggling in her bonds. The question and her confession, it seemed, had re-awoken the anger that had led her to murder. "And she refused to give me that little bit. All I needed was that little bit," she said, voice quieting as her body stilled, "and she decided to get rid of me instead."

**.oOo.**

The sobriety of Helen's confession had put a damper on the elation of Sherlock's deductions as John's mind easily turned the situation into him in the murder's shoes, and his flatmate in the victim's. The cab was silent as he tried to imagine killing the Earth in retribution for unreturned affections, but the thought turned his stomach so quickly he had to drop the thought or risk being sick in a cab. It wasn't that he didn't understand her pain, he knew it better than most, but he was happy to remain in the outskirts as long as Sherlock himself was happy. And if Sherlock wasn't interested in being in Orbit with anyone, John wasn't going to make him uncomfortable by informing him of his own feelings. He could love and protect from right where he was just fine, thank you.

"Would you ever kill me?" the man to his right asked out of nowhere, snapping John from his thoughts.

"No!" he replied automatically, turning and being automatically caught by the sight of the light from Sherlock's mobile playing across his face, making his cheekbones sharp and alien. "I- What? Why?"

"Our arrangement is not dissimilar to the one between Miss Flaversham and Helen." John cocked his head, confused.

"Because your money pays for our groceries and I clean up after you?" he asked, trying to view it through his friend's eyes. "That's a bit of a stretch-" He was cut off by the patented _'Don't be stupid, John'_ look.

"You're in Orbit with me." There was quite suddenly no air left in the cab.

"Why would you say that?" John managed to force out, trying, likely in vain, to make his voice sound normal. The look he received in return clearly said he had failed.

"Just because I didn't want an Orbit doesn't mean I can't still feel them, John. It's been there since the first day. You were caught in my Gravity the second I asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq'."

"You knew… You knew this entire time?" He felt shaken, as if his soul and his body had become desynchronised.

"Plenty of Moons have fallen into my Orbit before," Sherlock informed him with a dismissive shrug that seemed too light for so heavy a topic. At the same time, it was a strange bit of relief to hear his own suspicion that he was a Moon rather than a Mercury confirmed. "Or rather, they've become caught in my Gravitational Field while I'm present, but they've never stuck. They fall out after I leave the room. But not you, John Watson. I leave the room and I can feel you tugging me back to you. I lead and you follow without question. But you don't mention it. So I can't help but wonder, will you succumb to the despair caused by my failing to acknowledge what has formed between us? Will you murder me to be free of an Orbit you seem unable to break?"

John was shaking his head before Sherlock had finished speaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he realised the cabbie was staring at them from the rearview mirror with far too much interest, but he couldn't bring himself to tell the man off. "I don't want to leave your Orbit," he finally managed to say. "I never thought I'd have a place to belong after the army. I would do anything to stay with you for as long as you would have me. And if that means staying on the outskirts, pretending I'm not in Orbit, then that's what I'll do." His chest felt open and raw, as if he'd cut himself open and scraped out what was inside to deposit at his flatmate's feat like a macabre sacrifice. "Your life and your happiness are more important to me than anything else."

Sherlock didn't say anything and John didn't dare look at him. It was difficult as it was talking about stuff like this, and just the thought of the sneer he could imagine on his friend's face at his sentiment only dug more out of his chest. When the vehicle pulled up in front of Baker Street a moment later, he was shooting out of it like a bullet, determined to get as far away from his confession as quick as he could. His key was in the lock before he heard the second cab door close, and a very present part of him hoped that Sherlock hadn't even gotten out. That the detective had more things to do and was going to leave John and his sentimentality alone for a little while longer.

John took the stairs two at a time and burst into the sitting room, but halfway to his chair, he realised that he didn't really want to sit right now. His entire body was buzzing with nervous energy and he rocked back onto his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. Well, at the very least, he needed to burn off some of this excess energy, and get away from the home he shared with his Planet. The ex-soldier did an about-face, only to find Sherlock leaning against the closed door, pulling his gloves off with a strange gleam in his eyes.

"I'm going to go for a walk," John announced, shoulders back, chin high, and fight-or-flight response tipped heavily towards 'flight'. Despite his words, Sherlock didn't move other than to cock his head at him. "Sherlock, did you hear me?" he asked, eyes unconsciously sliding down the long, tantalising trouser-clad legs.

"I heard you." John's eyes snapped back to Sherlock's, only for them to get distracted by the play of muddled lines of water and earth over the big hands. He'd always wondered if an Earth's skin was a perfect atlas for the planet itself, but he'd never had the chance to find out. Not that that didn't stop his mind from dwelling on what may or may not be hidden under his flatmate's clothes. "What if I didn't want you to remain on the outskirts anymore?"

It took a few moments before his brain caught up with the question, but when it did, John's heart sunk in his chest. "Then I would go pack. I can stay with Harry until I find a new place." He didn't want to do it, but he would if it meant Sherlock was happy. He'd never been able to understand the phrase _"If you love them, you'll let them go."_ But then, he'd never felt like this about someone before. It made sense now.

The Earth pushed away from the door and stalked forward like a predator with their eye on their prey. The motion had always hardened the ex-soldier's spine in the past, but now he wanted to fidget on his feet as nerves and annoyance began to roil in his stomach. "What if I don't want you to leave either?"

"You don't want me on the outskirts, you don't want me to leave. What the hell else is left, Sherlock?" John snapped. His fight-or-flight response was beginning to tip the other way, and as much as he wanted to hit the genius, he didn't think he'd actually enjoy it the way he imagined he would.

Sherlock just smiled, and it wasn't until then that John realised how close the other man had gotten. His step backward was stopped by hands curling in his coat, tugging him forward into the Earth's lips.

The contact was unexpectedly soft. And simply unexpected in general. So much so that his eyes remained wide and locked on green-blue-grey ones. A moment later though, those eyes closed, and arms curled around his back as the lips against his pulled away. They were replaced a split second later by gentle teeth, nipping at his jaw and his cheekbones and the tip of his nose and his philtrum. When Sherlock finally kissed him again, John shuddered and his eyes closed as his arms raised to clutch at the taller man's shoulders.

It didn't take long for the Earth's tongue to slide into his mouth, and the warm, wet slide of the muscle against his own made him dizzy and breathless. The world around him was spinning by the time a hard thigh pressed between both of his own, rubbing against an erection he didn't realise he had. The second he broke away to breathe, a moan fell from his throat instead and lips and teeth attacked his neck.

He had had sex with Planets and Moons in the past, men and women, slow love-making and quick fucks. But nothing had ever obliterated this mind like Sherlock was doing right now. Perhaps it was because he was trapped in Sherlock's Gravity. Perhaps it was because it was Sherlock.

"Wait!" John gasped, pulling his lips away and dizzy with the need for a proper breath, choking on a desperate inhale when Sherlock just bent his head to John's neck instead, sucking and biting at the skin as an erection was rocked into the shorter man's thigh. "Sherlock!" There was a pleased hum against his skin followed by a particularly vicious suck and his knees almost buckled. "Please." The Earth gave an annoyed groan as he pulled his head back, but left his legs right where they were, tangled with John's and making his brain melt.

"What?" the over-sized child groaned in exasperation. "We've confirmed we're in Orbit with one another and that that's exactly where we want each other. What else is there to wait for? Let's fuck."

"Oh Jesus," the Moon breathed at the sound of such a filthy sentence in such a deep voice, and the demand was only made filthier by coming from such a posh mouth. John had had a rebuttal, a contestation, but he could no longer remember what it was, especially when nimble fingers wriggled between them and undid the button and zip on his jeans. Calloused fingerpads pressed against the sensitive length of his erection and John's hips jumped at the same time as his heart.

"Left trouser pocket, John," Sherlock said, voice near-silent in its breathlessness. It seemed a bit unfair, especially since his cock wasn't being worked over by fingers that had no right to know how to do something like _that_. Still, John obediently reached for the dip of fabric and his grasp closed on a small bottle. He couldn't read what was printed on the clear plastic, but he knew the shape well and moaned at what its presence indicated was about to occur.

"Get my fingers ready, John," his Earth commanded, holding out his free hand. The doctor eagerly ripped the packet open and squirted lubrication onto the pale skin, spreading it down and between long fingers. Fingers that were gone from his grip a moment later, a palm at his arse, a finger against his hole- _in_ his hole.

"Nngh," was the only sound he was capable of making as the digit pressed inside, not stopping until the third knuckle was pressed against his rim. It had been a few months since since the last time he'd been penetrated, and he hadn't had the time to do it to himself when he'd feared his mad flatmate would run in any second, so there was a slight burn as the finger pulled out and thrust back in. He couldn't really mind though; the pleasure of having Sherlock inside him overrode the minor ache.

"Take me out, John," Sherlock instructed, pressing another finger into him before he'd really even adjusted to the first. The ex-soldier's head dropped back and rolled against the wall as his mind tried to make sense of the delicious stimulus. The world outside of the two fingers in his arse were fading away, and he almost missed the other man's next instruction. "Get me ready, John."

His hands were shaking as they navigated the complication contraption that were trouser buttons and zips, but finally, there was a long, slender cock in his hand. His mouth, if it hadn't already gone dry, did so at the sight of that hot flesh in the palm of his hand, and he was perhaps a bit over-eager in his application of the synthetic slick. But if Sherlock had worked a third finger into him when he was trying to 'get him ready', then there was a good chance he may have been a little more sparse.

John's mind was almost nothing more than white fuzz at the continued ministrations of callouses over his cock as callouses brushed frustratingly across his prostate but never quite touched. He needed Sherlock, needed that cock to just finally pierce him fuck him ruin him claim him. He thought he may have said that outloud because his lover was nodding and directing him again.

"Arms around my shoulders, John." The hand around his erection let go and he made a sound of discontent, but a smooth tongue slid into his mouth, keeping him occupied and unargumentative, his arms wrapping around the taller man's neck in natural response. Hands gripped the backs of his thighs and he was lifted suddenly, his cry of surprise swallowed by Sherlock's overactive lips and tongue. The consulting detective, as slim as he looked, was still broad and heavy, and his chest pressed mercilessly into John's, keeping him sandwiched against the wall. The only place the shorter man's legs could go was around his partner's waist and he wrapped them tight, a vague fear of falling mid-coitus flitting across his mind. A moment later, the slide of a wet glans slipping between his arse cheeks swept away his concern.

"God, _Sherlock_ ," he moaned, speaking a proper word for the first time in what felt like forever. But he needed his Planet in him now, and the the mushroomed head just kept sliding past his hole, barely catching on the rim, little tingles of _'almost'_ serving to drive his arousal and his impatience higher. On the seventh such pass, he gave a groan of frustration, arched his spine, angled his hips, caught that cock on the loosened hole, and pressed down.

Sherlock and John's moans were simultaneous and equally relieved as gravity did all the work. Something about the inescapability of it though, the way Sherlock may have entered him inch by inch had they been horizontal, but could only slide to the hilt in a few scarce seconds, filling him so full that it seemed he'd never be able to take another step without feeling every hot inch of his Planet inside of him.

" _John_ ," Sherlock groaned against the skin of the Moon's neck. The way his normally eloquent flatmate said his name, the way he sounded absolutely _wrecked_ , only made John's arms and legs wrap tighter. "Oh, my John. I've wanted to be inside you for so long."

"Then why-" John started and then stopped as he shifted his hips, trying to adjust to the intrusion, and incidentally rubbing the smooth glans against his prostate. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Sherlock's teeth closed on the flesh of his neck and the hands under John's thighs tightened, holding him and shifting him, before the slim cock pulled out slightly to slide back in. "You gave no indication your Orbit was anything other than platonic."

"Fuck, do that again," the Moon demanded. Sherlock did as instructed and John's head rolled along the busy wallpaper, eyes closed and mouth open wide. "Oh fuck, that's good. _Fuck_ , that's so good," he groaned, praises falling from his lips as the Earth continued with his slow thrusts. "And you idiot," the doctor said suddenly, trying and failing to peel open even one eye. "There's never been a case of platonic single-Moon Orbit in all of history."

"If anyone could have done it, it would have been you, John Watson," Sherlock murmured, falling still. Now John could open his eyes, and he did, finding his flatmate watching him with a curious expression. He couldn't help it. He laughed.

"You fucking romantic, you. Come here." The Moon didn't give his Planet any chance to comply before he threaded his fingers through the dark curls and yanked the man in for a mind-blowing kiss. The grip on his thighs slid to his arse, gripping tight as the hips below his bucked, bouncing him on the perfect cock.

Ragged breathing filled the space between their parted lips, taking over that of the sloppy slide of over-enthusiastic tongues and lips and the clacking of teeth. John was irritatingly close, the fabric of the Belstaff harsh and grating and somehow exactly what he needed against the sensitive skin of his cock, but he couldn't manage the words to warn his lover. All he could do was grunt and hold tighter and squeeze his eyes shut as his teeth closed over Sherlock's jaw, that stupid soft scarf still wrapped around a pale neck obstructing where he really wanted to sink his teeth into. But his lover must have gotten the message because Sherlock somehow stepped in closer and fucked into him harder, the steady thrusts a barrage against John's prostate.

John couldn't hold back the strangled sound his throat let loose into the bit of pale blue skin trapped between his teeth when he came. It was only a moment later that Sherlock was making a similar sound into the grey-patterned throat before he fell still. It felt like his legs wouldn't stop shaking where they were wrapped around his Planet's waist, but he had never felt more satisfied.

"I'm going to drop you," Sherlock warned suddenly. With a pained grimace, John dropped his feet back to the floor, nose wrinkling at the sensation of warm come sliding down the backs of his thighs. His genius took one look at his expression and burst into near-hysteric laughter before swooping in for a kiss. Long fingers traced down the trail of ejaculate on the back of John's thighs before sweeping it back up the way it came, pressing it back into the hole it fell from.

"Sherlock!" John scolded, though the goofy smile on his face over-rode the snap in his voice.

"I was just trying to help," the Earth replied innocently. The two of them only held their composure for a minute before dissolving into helpless giggles.

"Of course you were, love," the long-suffering blogger humoured. "Now maybe you could help me get _properly_ cleaned?"

Sherlock's only response was a trail of clothes from the sitting room to the shower.

**.oOo.**

John had taken his time exploring the blues and green-browns and the dips and spikes of colour that covered Sherlock's skin, and had fallen asleep with his head on taller man's chest even as he'd been tracing the colourings of a mountain range that ran from the Earth's belly button to his cock. Now it was the genius' turn to return the favour, and he could only be thankful that John was already asleep-- he'd already discovered how ticklish his army doctor could be when they'd been in the shower.

He'd studied every kind of Planet and Moon skin patterns that there was from one crime or another, but still, he found himself unreasonably fascinated by John's. Every time he completed an aerial survey, he'd put his fingers to the tanned skin and discover a new chasm or mountain range or plain that he hadn't realised were there. It was almost as if the patterns moved, but the seeming permanence of certain memorable landmarks assured him that they were as still as the Periodic Table poster hanging on his wall.

When Sherlock had made three circuits on John's chest, and was still discovering new things, he could barely contain himself. His lover's skin was just like the man himself: appearance of absolute normality while closer looks reveal unimaginable hidden depths and strengths. It only reaffirmed his belief that he could never get bored of John, that John was _interesting_ in a way no one else could ever be. The genius had always scoffed how Planets and Moons became so dependant on one another, but experiencing it for himself, knowing that, even before either of them admitted to themselves that they were in Orbit with each other, he would have been adrift without his blogger at his side. He would have never been able to live the life he'd carved out for himself to its fullest. He hadn't realised how much The Work was missing John Watson until they had met.

The body propped against his shifted, rolling forward and splaying arms and legs around Sherlock's body, wrapping him tightly in tanned skin covered in an unending grey patina. The consulting detective found himself smiling, the facial expression making itself known in his chest with an unfamiliar but welcome fuzziness. Normally, he would have clamped down on any emotion before it could manifest itself on his face, but within his Moon's warm embrace, Sherlock found he didn't mind its presence. He began to hum a new composition under his breath as the exploration of his fingers migrated to the undiscovered patterns on John's back.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I received a review that asked about how other parts of the universe worked, and I think some of you may enjoy the canons I have for the 'verse. See [this](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/19205237) thread for some more info on how Planetlock works~
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought, good or bad, in the Comments, and if bad, please be constructive so that I may better my writing! :3 Also, if you liked the story enough to want to promote/rec it on tumblr, instead of creating a new post, please reblog [my original post](http://themadkatter13fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/102823004168/geocentric)! Thank you so much! You are, of course, also more than welcome to follow me on tumblr as well! :3 Tschüß~


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